


theory & application

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Established Relationship, Experimentation, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11780898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Sam's always been curious, and he likes to get things right.





	theory & application

**Author's Note:**

> in response to some of my tags on a gifset, three different anons asked for variations on: teenage Sam actually doing research and teaching Dean some things about his body. This can be considered a group fill.

Sam spent a very careful hour on the computer at the library, the one that was turned away from the information desk so that Mrs. Lowenstein couldn’t see what he was looking up. It’s not—not like it was  _bad_ , anyway. It’s just anatomical diagrams. The illustrated Encyclopedia Britannica at school had some of the same pictures—it’s just that they’d been marked up by all the kids who had the same thought Sam had, and people had colored in the boobs and scribbled in sharpie over the penis and written _Steve Carmichael is a fag!_ in the—the rectal area, and, well, that wasn’t exactly helpful.

“Earth to Sammy,” Dean says.

Sam bites his lip. Dean raises his eyebrows, propped on his elbows on the crappy mattress. In the slatted light from the afternoon leaking in behind the blinds he’s all golden-pale, still in his jeans, his feet bare and planted on the bed. “Sorry,” Sam says, too late, and clears his throat.

“It’s your show, dude,” Dean says, in that voice he uses when he’s trying to be all reasonable and adult. It doesn’t sound right out of his mouth. Sam clenches his fists in his jeans, because that’s also the voice Dean uses when he’s trying to— “No big deal,” Dean continues, and yeah. Like he’s trying to give Sam an out.

“Did you do what I told you?” Sam says. He maybe sounds a little annoyed, but come on. Like they haven’t been over _that_ a hundred times.

Dean blinks at him. “Yeah.” He licks his lips, shifts his hips, and then puts on a grin, one of those big shiny _flirting with waitresses_  ones, like Sam’s gonna give him a slice of pie for free or something. “Kinda hungry now, but you’re gonna make it worth my while, right?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Right,” he says, with a huff, but he leans over and kisses Dean anyway, propped up all awkward over his torso. Dean makes a surprised noise into his mouth, but he’s still smiling, though a little smaller now. More real. Sam’s still shorter than him, feels like he’s always gonna be, but it doesn’t matter like this. Dean kisses him back, soft little smoochy kisses with his head tipped back on his shoulders, and Sam’s been almost-hard all day but now he’s all the way there, just from this. Dean’s familiar smell, his soft lips. How he always lets Sam call the shots, and Sam didn’t like that at first but he gets why, now.

“Take off your pants,” Sam says. He was kind of aiming for sounding sexy but it just comes out like a whisper, instead. He pulls back an inch or two and Dean blinks at him, hazy, shakes his head.

“You do it?” Dean says, and Sam licks his lips, leans in and kisses Dean again, nods. Okay, yeah. Maybe that’s better. He scoots back on the bed and Dean relaxes back onto his elbows, watches him heavy-lidded in the golden light, and Sam turns away from that, watches his hands as he tugs down’s Dean’s zipper, curls his fingers in against that soft warm skin and drags both jeans and his boxers down all at once. Dean lifts his hips, helpfully, and Sam pulls the whole warm bundle down and off his feet, tosses it blindly off to the side, and—oh, there. Dean. He hit six feet when he turned eighteen last year and now that he’s not going to school anymore he spends a lot of time doing PT, running, taking random shifts at the garage, and he—he looks good. Bigger than Sam, which is annoying when they wrestle, but still so familiar, from his freckles to the plump pink of his dick. His ears are going pink to match, now, and he pulls up one knee, almost like he’s trying to be modest. Not like it’s anything Sam hasn’t seen. “Your show, Sammy,” he says, almost strained, and something goes all weird and warm in Sam’s belly. Dean’s his annoying big brother, in every way, but like this—Sam’s in charge.

Sam scrapes his hair back from his forehead. “Grab the vaseline,” he says, and Dean kind of laughs, says, _jeez_ , under his breath, but even as he twists and grabs the little tub off the bedside table Sam can see he’s getting harder. Sam puts his hands around Dean’s ankles and pushes, and Dean obligingly scoots his feet further up the bed, plants them flat with his knees bent up high, and Sam settles crosslegged on the mattress—close enough to touch, if he wants to. Sweat’s already breaking out in his pits, on his back under his t-shirt, and he pushes his hair out of his eyes again. Dean’s clean, freshly showered just before Sam came home from school, and he still isn’t too hairy. Sam can see—everything.

“The internet said that—probably two or three fingers is plenty,” Sam says, and nods at the tub. “You’re gonna want to get a bunch of that, though, warm it up.”

Dean bites his lips between his teeth. He scoops out a big gob, makes a face at the texture. “The people on the internet talk about how grody this is?” Dean says, but he rubs his fingers together, dutifully, and Sam swallows at how shiny they already are. He thinks about turning the lamp on, but—no, like this, the glowy diffuse light, this is good.

“You’re supposed to rub it in slow,” Sam says.

Dean doesn’t make him say where. He reaches down, past his dick where’s it’s laying half-hard against his thigh, but the angle’s awkward. He has to shift up, gets his shoulders against the headboard and gathers his balls up out of the way with his left hand, and Sam can _see_  the gleaming trail he leaves when he rubs three fingers over his hole. He jumps, like he startled himself.

“Too cold?” Sam says. He doesn’t see how it possibly could be—but, no, Dean shakes his head, licks his lips. He rubs in slow, dragging pulls, and Sam can see the soft furl going just a little pink under the pressure. He sucks in a breath. “Spread your legs a little wider,” he says, and Dean blinks at him but does it, just because Sam asked, he shifts his feet and pulls his knees wide apart, and Sam can see the tendon in his thigh pulling taut but oh, that makes the view better. “How does it feel?”

Dean shrugs. “Good enough, I guess.” His voice is all quiet. He flattens his fingers and presses, hard enough that his nails go white for a second, and that makes his mouth part. “Not as good as jerking off,” he says, a little bit of a tease, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“It’s supposed to feel better, if you’d get your butt in gear,” Sam says, and Dean snorts at the pun. Sam rubs his sweaty palms on his knees, wonders if Dean’s relaxed enough now. “Try pressing with a finger.”

He thinks Dean probably fingered girls, before. This isn’t like that. Dean closes his eyes and Sam almost asks him to keep them open, but—he watches Dean circle around his hole with his middle finger, watches the careful press as he tries to get in, but he’s so tight it’s a struggle. Sam tried this on himself, in the shower a few weeks ago, and it felt kinda weird, kinda good, but he gave up before he went too far. Dean won’t. Sam knows that. He puts a hand on Dean’s knee, leans in a little closer, and the tip of Dean’s finger slides in, and then immediately out again. Dean makes a little _ah_  sound, his eyes popping open.

“Try again?” Sam says. Dean licks his lips again and they’re shiny-pink, almost as shiny as he is below, and this time when he pushes his finger slides a little easier, and without Sam prompting he pushes it deeper, twists his wrist and gets it in almost to the second knuckle. He lets out a grunt and Sam realizes he’s gripping Dean’s knee so hard that the flesh is going white. He lets go, and says, “Good?”

Dean shrugs again. “Not bad,” he says, voice strained. His dick’s a little softer.

Sam slides his hand down the side of Dean’s thigh, scoots closer so his knees are brushing Dean’s bare shins. “I was reading today, at the library.” Dean rolls his eyes. “The prostate’s just a few inches inside,” Sam continues, ignoring that. “On the same side where your dick and everything is. So, there was a diagram, comparing sex with a girl to sex with a guy.”

“What kinda websites are you going to at school?” Dean says, frowning, and it’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Pull your finger out and then push it in again,” Sam says, and Dean does, slowly, his finger gleaming, and when Sam raises his eyebrows he does it again, starts pumping it in a steady slow rhythm. “That’s like—like fucking, right?” The word sounds awkward, but Dean flushes a little darker. “So, with a girl, when you screw her, you want to try to get a good angle toward her belly, because that’s where her good spot is.” Sam puts two fingers lightly on Dean’s taint—or, _perineum_ , he knows now. He meets Dean’s eyes, increases the pressure a little against the warm slippery skin. “If someone was screwing you they’d want to hit the same spot.”

Dean’s ears and cheeks and throat are all dark red, now, and Sam knows he’s blushing, too, from how hot his face is. “Someone,” Dean says, almost like teasing, but his voice is all down-low, and Sam says, “Two fingers?” and Dean nods, drags his finger out and puts two up against his hole, and with Sam watching he screws them in against the sudden give of it, has to push hard and gets them in with a visible effort.

“Hang on,” Sam says, and scrambles for the open vaseline tub, forgotten on the sheets beside them. He scoops out a thick gobby fingerful and reaches down between them, smears it over the hot tight skin, and—oh, this is—Dean pulls his fingers out a few inches and Sam slides the goop along them, over the stretched ring, and—and he hadn’t even really meant to touch Dean here, was just going to let him figure out if he liked it for himself, but Dean groans, twists his fingers around with Sam still touching them and sinks them in all the way, so that Sam’s touching him while he feels the skin stretch all tight. Oh, god.

"Sammy," Dean says, kind of thick and weird, and Sam rubs his thumb up against where Dean's fingers are disappearing inside himself, fascinated. " _Sammy_ ," Dean says, more insistently, and when Sam looks up Dean's watching him hot-eyed and intent, like he gets when he's sucking Sam's dick, or when they're jerking off together and they're pressed so close it's like Sam can feel Dean's heart beating under his own ribs. He slides his thumb up the slick perineum to where Dean's balls are pulled up tight out of the way and Dean shudders, and he says, "C'mere, Sam, get up here," and Sam scrambles up onto his knees and leans in and kisses Dean, propped up on one hand while his other stays buried down where everything's so hot and slick and moving. Dean knocks his mouth open, licks against his lower lip, but the kiss is shallow, the two of them breathing against each other more than anything else.

"Good?" Sam says, and Dean says, "Shut up," breathy, and Sam kisses him for real after that, sloppy and, okay, he still feels half like he doesn't know what he's doing, but that's okay, when it's them. They're figuring it out together, that's what Dean said—what he's always said, since that first time. Sam pulls back to breathe and looks down between them, and Dean's nearly all the way hard again, his dick laying up against his belly. God, Sam wants—oh, so much, he wants all kinds of stuff, but for now he pushes up higher so he can see Dean's face and he says, "I read, if you—if you just drag your fingers, like rub them up against the inside, then—"

Dean's hips flex and he tips his head back, his eyes scrunching closed. "Like how," he says, and he's really—punching his fingers in and out, and oh _shit_ that looks so hot. Sam backs up on his knees, sets his palms on the backs of Dean's thighs to push them out just that extra inch. He's not getting it right but maybe that doesn't matter, with how hot and flushed he is all over. His nipples are pulled tight, his mouth bitten all the way to red, and Sam thinks for a weird bright second that he's going to be the cause of this, that he _is_ the cause of it, that Dean's doing it for _him_ , so he can see, so that they can learn together because Sam wanted to, because he whispered in Dean's ear one night when Dad was two hundred miles away _have you ever, do you ever think about, I want to try_ , and Sam's own dick lurches in his jeans and for a second he thinks he's going to cream his briefs even without touching, but then Dean groans out loud and says, "Ah—ah, Sammy, I can't, I can't," and yanks his fingers out, snaps his hand up to his dick and starts jerking himself, hard and fast. He shudders, thumbs over the head where he's all leaky, and Sam knows he's going to come soon, fast, but Sam wants more than that. Dean's still holding his balls all high so Sam's still got the perfect view where Dean's now an almost-sore red, worked over and tender looking, and he doesn't let himself overthink, he spits onto two fingers and pushes them together and twists and shoves _in_ , and Dean's hips flinch up, fuck him up into his own grip.

"Oh my god," Sam says, out loud. He's—he's inside Dean, and it's so much more open than he was when he tried it himself but it's still tight, too, so crazy-warm and soft and sticky-wet, and he twists his fingers around, pushes right up inside and against the inner wall just like he read about, crams in as deep as he can with his knuckles denting into the soft muscle of Dean's ass and drags in tight, back-and-forth motions, and when he looks up Dean's looking right back at him, mouth open and heaving in shuddery breaths. Sam feels about as crazy as Dean looks, right now, his own stomach and balls clenching in sympathy. "Are you gonna?" Sam says, his voice all thin. "Are you—Dean, like this?"

Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't look like he can. Sam keeps his fingers right where they are and everything gets tighter, Dean's hips jumping, and he drops his head back on his shoulder and then he's—coming, pulsing tight around Sam's fingers in a way he's never felt before, shooting all wet and messy over his belly and up to his chest, holy crap. Sam keeps up his massage even as Dean's hand starts to slow down and Dean's hips flinch, his thighs jerking closed all tight around Sam's sides, and he just _keeps_ coming, all thick and white, groaning out loud now with his head banged up against the headboard. Sam keeps his fingers right where they are and fumbles open his own jeans left-handed, awkward and scrambling, and he doesn't care if Dean makes fun of him for being on a hair-trigger but he's going to blow his wad in like t-minus ten seconds, and yeah, he shoves his briefs down and gets his hand around his dick and jerks himself four, five times, and then he's coming—not as much as Dean, not nearly as much, but it feels like it's coming from his freaking spine, and tucked in close like he is he spatters all over Dean's own dick, over his hand, and—and lower, over the perineum, and while Sam watches open-mouthed and panting it starts to drip, gravity pulling it down. Sam pulls his fingers out, lets the drip collect on the wet pads of them, and then—pushes it back in, not really thinking about it.

"Sammy," Dean says.

Sam looks up. Dean's staring at him, flushed. The light's a little lower now, maybe falling down into sunset, but there's still enough that Sam can see how Dean's eyes are almost all dark. Dean reaches out and tugs at Sam's t-shirt and Sam just drags his hands free and falls into him, all of his muscles gone kind of rubbery at once. Dean pulls him close with sticky hands and kisses him, lazy and soft. Sam sighs, and then drops his forehead down to Dean's shoulder. He's sweating, but he's too comfortable to move.

"Was that okay?" he says, after a while.

Dean snorts. He stretches his legs out, a little, though he still keeps Sam cradled between them. "It didn't suck," he says, against Sam's hair. Sam pinches his side, and Dean smacks his butt in retaliation. "Yeah, yeah. Next time I want better lube, though."

Sam smiles, tucked in against Dean's skin. "Next time," he agrees. Dean stretches out, underneath him, and he rides the bumpy wave of it. His t-shirt's getting totally ruined, probably, with what's all smeary between them, and he pushes up and off of Dean, reluctantly, rolls onto his back and sighs happily at the ceiling. Maybe he'll take a nap before they do something about dinner.

"Oh, no," Dean says, and then a pillow hits Sam in the face. He blinks, and Dean's standing beside the bed, naked, the last reddish light from the sun showing off his smeary belly, the soft hanging weight of his dick. Sam swallows. "We're nasty, come on. Time to hit the showers."

Not waiting for a response, Dean walks off to the grimy little bathroom and Sam watches his butt flex, the slight shine between his thighs as he moves. His lower belly clenches, tight. The light clicks on and then the shower rushes on after that, the water hitting the bathtub that's big enough for them both to stand in together. Okay, clean-up, and maybe—something more. He licks his lips. Dad's not going to be back for another week at least, and there was a lot more stuff on that website Sam found. Way more than he ever really knew about, and more than he thinks Dean ever has, too. He's willing to bet that Dean wouldn't mind if Sam learned a little more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/164091445089/teenage-sam-actually-reading-up-on-this-stuff-and)


End file.
